She pushes up to her knees. “The quake can be the reason Kaleb never comes back. It might even be legitimate. If they believe Kaleb is alive, I’ll run the kingdom. By the time they learn the truth, I’ll be the established ruler. Take me to those men he sent back.”
Strategically choosing a white dress with the front cut to her navel and deliberately too small so her breasts could pop out at any second allows Mary to keep the attention of the ruffians Kaleb keeps in check. “None of you have spoken to anyone else in the camp?” she asks the men in the truck.
“No one knows we’re back. The pastor didn’t want a panic.”
“Where’s my husband?” she demands.
“He chased after that Ethan guy. We found some of Ethan’s people, and they said he was going to Memphis.”
“Kaleb departed for Memphis?” Mary reaches behind her back. Her chest heaves. All five men stare. Those not interested in her nipples poking through the white sheen stare at her tan, exposed legs.
“Why?” Her tone shifts to a playful five-year-old.
“The man killed two of his brothers, for sure. Maybe three of them.”
“I know, but how do you know this Ethan traveled to Memphis?” Now she asks in her leader voice. The men admire her figure—no notice of her arm akimbo behind her back.
“The way he tortured those people we ran into…they told the truth.”
“He tortured?” She releases daggers from her eyes. “He promised no more.”
“You’d be proud. He wouldn’t allow us to rape the woman. He left her tied to a tree.”
“Not dead?” She relaxes, but quickens her breath so her chest heaves. The men’s eyes remain drawn to her bosom. If they let a woman live, she could pose a problem if we ever encounter them. Or she could come after those who tortured her. Fools.
The preacher circles around the truck behind the men.
“If she escapes…”
“She’s in no condition to escape. If she does get untied, she won’t travel too fast to warn anyone. She could barely use her legs, and she’ll have to gather supplies before she gets far. If she’s smart, she’ll head to her camp and never leave again.”
Fucking idiots. “And if her camp is well armed? They might pursue Kaleb.”
“We’re following his orders.”
“Fine. What were Kaleb’s instructions?”
“Kale to be in charge while he’s gone. We enforce any order he gives.”
“I’m his wife…and queen.”
“He said Kale’s in charge. Thought maybe we could make one wall all the way to the farms with semi-truck trailers. Weld them together.”
“Brilliant.” Mary jerks her hands from behind her back and fires the snub nose .38. She kills two before anyone moves.
John fires, killing a third. The driver ducks, but Mary shoots into the door. The preacher kills the fourth man.
Mary pops her last round through the truck window. “You need to bury them. Take the truck and get rid of it.”
“How do I do that? You’ve got search parties out scavenging. It will be found.”
“Go out far enough, and light it on fire. No one will recognize it. If they do, they will think something happened to Kaleb.”
“You don’t demand much, do you?”
“You need this to work. We can’t have Kale in charge. He doesn’t trust me.” She flips open the cylinder and drops the empty shells into the truck bed before taking loose shells from her tiny purse.
“Kill him.”
“No. He must get this place up and running before I do him in,” she says.
“What happens when Kaleb returns and his men are gone?”
“They never made it back. People are overrun by the undead every day.” She slides a live round into each empty chamber. “I like this wall idea.”
“Moving that many trailers will make a lot of noise and eat up precious diesel fuel.” He struggles to flip the body that fell out of the truck back into the bed. “They got a lot of gear.”
“Doesn’t matter. Can’t have some favorite knife of one of these fuckers recognized. Burn it all.” Mary plots her next move, more aloud to herself than to John. “But if we weld the trailers together and we have a tunnel on one side, we don’t have to worry about as much with patrols. Could we encircle these mansions and then make a corridor to the farm?”
“You’re talking miles. It will take some hundred and ten trailers to stretch a mile.”
“You’re correct about the noise. But it would be an impenetrable wall around the mansions. Keep out vagrants while I swim.” She flashes him a teasing smile.
“You’re talking about detachable cargo trailers. They’ll be harder to come by.”
“Flip the other kind upside down. I don’t care about pretty. I want safe.”
“Fine. I’ll get rid of the truck and the bodies. You get Kale to surround your palace with trailers. It sounds like a silly, girl idea anyway.”
“But it will work?” She needs his reassurance.
“Yeah. But as smart as he is, he’ll still think wire fence.”
“It doesn’t matter. It will keep him occupied.”
John grabs Mary by the arm. “I miss you.”
“You can’t have me. If Kale finds out, we’re decorations for his crucified undead gate entrance. Preacher, we still can’t be together until after I get rid of Kale. And once my husband returns, you’ll have to stay away.”
“Right here. Now. No one is around.” He chews on her neck.
She shudders from the tickling. “Next to the dead bodies? You’re sick. And even if our people didn’t hear the shots, I promise you the undead did.”
“You’re worth the wait. Maybe I can catch your hubby before he gets back. Then you’ll be mine.”
She pushes him away. “Not until I am a queen. I protect them, and they will follow. They demand a queen. They need someone to tell them what to do. They were going to elect a woman president. They will follow a queen. And I’m no weak woman. I need Kaleb’s men under my control. Right now, they are loyal to him. As we bring more people in, and they trust me while he is gone, I’ll send his men out on more and more risky runs. They’ll get killed, and their replacements will be my people.”
“You’ve thought it through.”
“The moment I met Kaleb on the road, I knew I would be able to control him. I didn’t know he’d run off after his brother’s killer before I had full conservatorship of this organization.”
“From what some of these people say about Kaleb while he was running around the refugee camp on Fort Wood, I can’t believe he didn’t rape you and leave you on the side of the road. The Bowlins acquired what they desired from any girl.”
“I opened my legs. He didn’t know what to do with a woman who was willing. Once I had his attention, I owned him. He’ll do anything I desire. Chances are, he’ll get himself killed going off to Memphis.”
The ground shakes. Mary loses her footing. “What the hell!”
“We’re in for more aftershocks.”
“People are going to panic. You get rid of these bodies. I’m going back to the mansion and then the farm. People need to witness their queen and how she cares about them.”
“You’ve lost your mind.” He pats her bottom.
“No, I’m getting the life I am entitled.”
THERE’S NO ONE to even kill for proper medical care. Tom snags the release on the dagger sheath he used to split his broken arm. Brilliant splint—the straight, long blade. Never thought I would use it. With the securing clasp, it wouldn’t pop out and cut me.
I need a surgeon to repair the damage Danziger caused. God, had there been no other way to escape those people? No. And there’s no other way to escape these people. The crazies are going to have to be put down like rabid dogs.
More light would be preferable. Tom dances back. He avoids the hole in the ceiling, but won’t step into the dark corners, making the biters impossible to view. His eyes adjust to the blackne
ss, but not fast enough.
Church patrons cheer for his death.
The undead in the basement lack speed. Tom maneuvers further into the shadows now that his eyes have accustomed to little illumination. I won’t give them the pleasure of a show.
A limping corpse has a knife plunged through its scapula. From the bend of the handle, he bets it’s stuck. Tom tucks his blade under his bad arm and grabs the new knife, guiding the walking corpse as a shield to fend off the other undead.
The angry parishioners draw attention away from him, upset they’re unable to witness the demise of an infidel. Backing up with only one arm to steer a failing monster proves difficult, but Tom reaches the wall, safe behind his shield. Moan-howls exacerbate the living upstairs who scream for his death and have no line of sight.
It’s a basement, not a pit they dug. Must be a stairwell leading out. Even if they blocked it off. How do they release those worthy, not eaten by the undead? This test is like the Salem witch trials. No way to prove you’re not a witch because no human can pass the test. No person tossed down here is worthy. Fuck. Still, the stairwell would provide protection on three sides. They could only come at me one or two at a time. I should be able to take them out in those numbers. If I can let go of this guy long enough to stab another.
Tom slides around, working toward a corner. The undead fights him every step, and the others reach around the corpse, swiping shriveled hands at the former fireman. He jerks the knife, unbalancing his shield before kicking the still animated corpse at those attacking him. With his only hand now free, Tom draws his blade and jabs it through the skull of an undead. If only I knew how many were down here.
Tom ends another one.
If they had brains, they would stay back, not wanting to be cut. But they don’t care or know pain. They only know hunger. He impales his next attacker in the neck, attempting to hold him at bay as another shield, but this creature’s too heavy to grasp, and the goopy mess spilling from his neck only greases his arm. Covered in ooze, Tom prepares himself to hack and slash.
The undead sniff at him.
They smell the dead blood? Tom admits, I have no understanding of these monsters. They love noise and seem to be able to smell the living.
Thunder booms from inside the church.
The living parishioners scream as the rifle reports draw the now uninterested biters away from him.
Dakota. It must be. I sent him down the highway to scout. He didn’t need to deal with Daniel’s body. Darcy and Dave were tied up as secure as me, so it must be Dakota.
The biters move into the light of the floor hole.
“Tom!” Darcy screams.
Tom stabs an undead as it jerks toward the girl’s voice. If I answer, it may draw their attention back to me.
“Tom!” she yells again. “I’ll feed each of you fuckers to them if he doesn’t answer soon.”
Tom slams another biter from behind. They all move to the light. “Call again,” he says, killing another as it turns to his voice.
“I think I heard a voice.” Darcy shushes the group.
“Tom!” Dave yells.
“Tom!” Darcy calls.
“Fuck this!” Dakota drops a man already bleeding into the hole.
The man lands on his side, fresh blood gushing faster from the hole in his abdomen. The undead rush to him. His screams don’t last long, but the munching of his flesh fills the basement.
Tom brains another. “I’m alive and unbit. Don’t toss any more people down here unless they refuse to tell you how they remove the worthy who pass their little test.”
Darcy fires into the hole, dropping two biters with head shots. “How do we get Tom out of there?” She points the smoking gun at the parishioners.
Another living soul impacts the floor.
Tom uses his seconds of distraction to search his end of the basement for the stairs. He ignores the burbling screams for mercy from the man being bitten, then eaten. He deserves no less. He may not have pushed Tom in, but he did nothing to stop it. Condoning the behavior makes him as guilty. Like there being only two races of people anymore—the dead and the living—there are no spectators, either.
Tom drives his knife into a biter with splintered legs. Shattered bones, still attached, drag behind the creature. I’ve got to get out of here.
“We can’t throw down a rope,” Darcy says.
“There have to be stairs!” Tom hollers. “To check the other side, I’ll have to fight through the biters.”
They finish off the second man.
“Tom. Tom. I’m making them unblock the stairs. It’s at the end behind the pulpit.”
Figures.
“Pop a few biters on the left side,” Tom suggests.
“How about I toss down another one of these bastards?”
Her suggestion brings bellows of protests.
“Because at this moment, we’re better than them,” Tom argues.
Thunder draws the biters.
Tom kills a slow one as he skates past to the far end of the basement. We should strip these people of all supplies and leave them to fend for themselves. Part of me thinks we should march them all into the hole and let the biters deal with them.
Tom twists, scaling the stairs sideways, not trusting the undead in the basement or the living above.
Light floods the stairwell. Tom doesn’t recognize the face of the door opener, but he does recognize the voice giving orders. Get out of this church and far away from these people.
The walls shake. The wall impacts Tom, lighting his broken arm afire with pain. He lands on the stairs, and more pain claws at the damage. In his years as a fireman, they drilled for the possibility of an earthquake.
The light above him dims.
Dust clogs the stairwell.
Screams of the living are quelled as the church wall above the pulpit lays over.
Tom flips to his belly, covering his neck with his free arm. His knife bounces down the stairs.
The seconds of shaking last an eternity, and, when quelled, Tom discovers himself in total blackness.
BLOOD BATHES THE narrow stairwell.
“I’m fucking bleeding. Bitch fucking shot me.” The last words of the man on the stairs as his wails fade to whimpers.
I got one, Emily thinks, as her middle right finger snaps. She suppresses her scream. Opening her jaw pains around the missing flesh on her cheek.
The gun skids across the floor. The one I shot will turn. She flings her arm. The slap has no power. Her arm flops. Get up. Get up, you stupid girl. Fight. Make them break every bone. She sinks her fingernails into Parlan’s neck.
She knows he punches her—twice. Her nervous system, overloaded, shuts down. At least I won’t feel it. God, I’d rather my mind be closed off. No. I’m going to fight. Emily forces her broken hand to slap Parlan.
He laughs of the playful peck.
Her good hand sinks her nails into his neck again. She aimed for the aorta. Breaking skin, she draws blood, but she doesn’t dig deep enough to reach the vital artery.
“She has spirit.” The other man laughs. He catches Parlan’s arm before he punches Emily. “I don’t want to screw a meat popsicle. Do your business and get off her.”
Emily cranes her neck. The tables supporting Dartagnan’s model have been untouched. She doesn’t know why the boy didn’t race in at the first shot. Her brown eyes find her gun.
“I don’t work well under pressure.”
Boom!
Half of Parlan’s face disintegrates into a fine, red mist. The remaining chunk of brains glops onto Emily as the rest decorates the wall with the pattern of buckshot.
Dartagnan swings the double barrel shotgun at the remaining attacker.
The remainder of Parlan’s body collapses on Emily. She struggles to crawl from underneath the weight crushing her. Unable to tell if both barrels smoke, she thinks, Must get to my gun. She pushes up, despite her broken finger, and wiggles.
Frozen like a statue,
Dartagnan keeps the shotgun steady.
The remaining man gives his best speaking-to-a-child voice a whirl. “You’ve got a lot of wrist watches, young man. You like knowing the time?”
He waves a finger at Dartagnan and the five watches laced on his forearm.
The boy doesn’t move.
From her trapped angle on the floor, Emily only views the underside of the shotgun. If the man notices both triggers have discharged…I need my gun first.
“I’ve got a watch. You can have it if you let me go. I wasn’t the one going to hurt your friend.” He eases back, only moving a foot half a stride.
Dartagnan remains a statue.
People who kill for the first time sometimes freeze, but not like this.
“Are you a special kid?” His undirected back step brings him close to the miniature version of Acheron on the tables.
Emily’s broken body, and her crawling under the table, changes nothing about Dartagnan’s demeanor, but the stranger inching toward his table causes a tremble in the barrel.
“I’ll go, kid. You blast me, and my blood will ruin your model. You worked hard on this. It’s good. This building looks just like this farmhouse. Bet it’s to scale.” He eases diagonally away from the tables.
Dartagnan’s tremble ceases.
Emily drags her foot from under Parlan. As her left hand grasps her pistol, the man dives for the door.
Click.
Dartagnan did fire both barrels.
She whips around, her left hand shaky and not trained to shoot.
The man grabs the edge of the table, flipping it up and spilling the model to the floor. Before it shatters against the hardwood, Dartagnan drops to his bottom, hugs his knees and rocks.
From the stairwell, the first man Emily shot crawls down the stairs toward them. The remaining living man towers over her. She makes the only viable choice.
The bullet splinters the wooden frame around the stairwell entrance.
The man jerks the gun from her hand. He lurches forward, lacing his fingers around Emily’s throat, wrenching her to her feet, and flings her into Dartagnan’s chair.
This sends the kid into a frantic wail while he rocks. The ear-splitting cadence would put any police siren to shame.
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 7
